


Rain

by Ladycat



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Bickering, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike rolls his eyes, already stepping outside - <i>without</i> putting a hand over his artfully styled hair. "Come on, you nancy. I promise you'll still be pretty."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynnenne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnenne/gifts).



"Dammit. It's raining."

Spike rolls his eyes, already stepping outside - _without_ putting a hand over his artfully styled hair. "Come on, you nancy. I promise you'll still be pretty."

Not like it's raining all that hard. The steady, unending drumming of the past few hours has already lightened into something almost misty, drops glittering in the air. Spike won't lower himself to call it diamond-like, but it does appeal to the magpie depths of his soul. Shiny, bright things, suspended all around.

He misses snow.

"But it'll get _humid_ ," Angel says - no, Angel _whines_ and when the hell did a two hundred plus year old vampire discover the art of whining? Worse, when did Spike start deciding it was cute? "It's not like you have to worry. Helmet hair."

"I told you could borrow it if you wanted."

"It smells terrible, Spike, no."

Which doesn't mean Angel hasn't _tried_ it, something Spike has no intention of letting Angel know he witnessed. "It smells better than your bamboo scented shite. What the hell do you want to smell like bamboo for, anyway? 

That gets him a growling glare - expected - but it also gets Angel walking so Spike counts it as a win. The rain has basically stopped before they've got a single block, but the steady downfall has already worked its magic and the streets are virtually empty. Spike's not sure he's ever seen L.A. quite _this_ empty before; not even cars race along slick, echoing streets, in a hurry to get their occupants somewhere warmer and drier. Well, drier. It is getting humid out, but Spike doesn't mind. His hair doesn't do the stupid poofing thing that Angel's does, each strand unfurling like flowers just come to bloom, going off in too many directions.

Angel catches him looking and offers a smile, hesitant smile.

Spike smiles back before he remembers that he can't pull off looking shy without also looking constipated and immediately transforms it into a scowl.

Angel just smiles wider.

"Ponce."

"Uh huh. Think we missed a memo?"

The undercurrent, sweeter than strawberries on skin, laughingly implies that there's another apocalypse on the horizon. There probably is, of course, but Spike isn't interested in that. He's never been big on worrying about the future, certain that he's big enough and bad enough to meet it head on. And he _is_ , too, it's just that... Spike forces his mouth out of the stupid simpering smile it wants to go back to and kicks at a can. It bounces, echoing loudly before rattling to a stop.

It's so quiet. Enough that Spike can hear the earth herself creaking out each rusty breath, while above he and Angel don't bother. Well, Angel doesn't. Spike does, habit and familiarity offered like the vampiric equivalent of sucking on his thumb. Spike likes breathing, likes the reassuring feeling of lungs expanding and empty veins buzzing like their filled again. It makes him feel alive in this silly, small way and - startled, Spike sneaks a glance to his right. Angel's walking slowly, without that lumbering, stomping pace he usually employs, shoulders back, eyes roving while he wears his own silly, pleased smile.

He's breathing. Really breathing, not the forced inhales and exhales he sometimes remembers to do when he needs to pretend, or calm someone down, or whatever reason he gives himself. He isn't thinking, like this. Just breathing.

Spike doesn't start when long, graceful fingers curl against his own, but just barely.

"We'll be late for the movie," he grumbles.

"So we'll be late. We've seen it before."

"Yeah, but the beginning's the best part! Oh, don't tell me. You like the end when it all falls to pieces, everybody harboring their own stupid guilt." 

Normally this is grounds for their never-ending arguments, part two million, but Angel smiles wider and shakes his head. "I like all of it. I've just seen it before, and I can see it again."

"Not like this, you can't." A real theater - the Mann, to be specific, decked out the way she once was, plus all the amenities modern audiences have come to expect with their entertainment. Spike looks down the block, listening to voices start to grow. They're almost there.

"Spike." Angel tugs, stopping them, and doesn't stop until Spike turns to face him square on. His hair isn't messed up at all, which Spike chooses not to tell him. It's still sticking straight up over his gormless face, that tiny, amused little smile making him look wicked and alluring without making him any less goofy. It's a talent Spike knows he doesn't have, and is jealous of.

But he likes when Angel looks at him like that. "What? What earth-shattering revelation is it this time?"

Angel's got their fingers threaded together, by now, palms flat and warm despite the way water weaves around them. He lifts his free hand, hesitating only long enough for another vampire to notice it, before tucking a strand of hair behind Spike's ear. "You look like a dandelion," he says, and grins.

Grins all the way down the stupid block, to the stupid theater, with its stupid people and Spike fuming over stupidly forgetting to put on his gel and his equally stupid decision to grow his hair out just 'cause Angel made a stupid comment about missing it - which makes Spike beyond stupid, really - and doesn't lose it while they buy their stupid tickets and stupid candy - Angel gets mike'n'ikes and Spike gets snowcaps 'cause they crunch better - and sit down to see stupid, stupid Casablanca.

As the lights go dim, the crowd actually quiet for a wonder, even before the opening titles start flicker into life, Angel leans over and kisses him right on his scowl. "Thought you liked the beginning the best."

"I hate you," he growls, low enough that the woman on his right startles, staring rather than ordering him to shush. He still wilts under her gaze and leans closer to Angel.

"I hate you too, then," Angel says, and squeezes the hand he hasn't let go of, even for a second.


End file.
